


Seventeen

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Category: Supernatural
Genre: An Imp Called Kaz, Gen, Human Impala, Human!Impala - Freeform, KAZ 2Y5, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 21:56:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kaz remembers something else. Loosely related to "From Under the Rainbow."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seventeen

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another fragment of recollection written for [An Imp Called Kaz](http://animpcalledkaz.tumblr.com).

I remember something else.

It’s after the accident with the eighteen-wheeler. Around me are the emptier, forgotten husks of old cars. (I suppose that, if I were human then, I might have panicked.) The sun shines brightly on my exterior. I am lighter than I should be. One of my doors is temporarily off its hinges. Dean works at my back wheel. He’s been working for hours but something is wrong with him.  He is quiet. He avoids my mirrors.

Then Sam comes and he talks.

Dean says only two words, but his voice his heavy, low.

Sam resumes talking. He mentions John. John. My John—

He’s dead. John is dead. He died. When a human dies, it isn’t like a car. There is no replacing of parts that can revive a human. He is…gone. Permanently gone. Dead. John. My John. Dead. Gone. Never coming back.

But how? Neither one says. It explains Dean’s silence, at least.

Sam leaves and for a moment, everything is still. Silent. Not even the wind moves.

Then there is breaking glass. Not one of my windows; somewhere nearby—

And then the first strike comes down hard, right on the lid of my trunk.

Then comes the second.

Then the third.

The fourth—

It goes on for seventeen strikes before he stops. Whatever he held in his hands clatters to the ground. The sounds echo into nothing on the still air, leaving only his heavy breathing. The metal of my fame takes forever to finish vibrating.

I don’t feel pain. Not in the way humans do. The brush with the eighteen-wheeler was a hindrance to my operational abilities and this… This is nothing by comparison. A…startling display of emotion, yes, and one that has put dents and a hole that do not belong on the lid of my trunk, but this is nothing I cannot bear.

Because, after all, this hole and these dents are nothing that cannot be repaired.

(Later, when the sky is dark and after he has repaired the lid of my trunk, he crawls into my back seat and lies down. For a long time, the only sounds to fill my interior are quiet whimpers, short pained sounds, and sniffling.)


End file.
